The Girl in the Tower
by I'mAnAngelReally
Summary: A retake on Rapunzel with elements of other fairy tales thrown in. The girl is a mystery. He doesn't know why she's locked in her tower, or who did it. His only task is to bring her a flask once every day, and take the old one away. All that changes when word comes of a man with sinister intentions, travelling to the tower. Will he be able to save her?


He comes in once every day, only once, to feed her. She always sits in the same place, crouched in the corner with her back to the door, a thick chain manacled to her ankle connecting her to the wall. There is one window, too small for the girl to escape through, even if she were able to reach it, that lets in the only light. Where she is sat, the light never reaches, and he has never seen her face. All he sees is her small, gaunt form, swaddled in a dress frayed around the edges and smeared with blood, and her mass of knotted, sable hair. Is she beautiful? He does not know. He wants to.

She does not acknowledge his presence, she never does. He watches her as he crosses the room to place the flask beside her and take the empty one away. As always, he hesitates, his hand trembling to close the distance between them. There was a time in which he would talk to her, but now the words freeze in his throat. What do you say to a girl who will not speak, whose eyes you've never met, and name you do not know? He tried to ask the other servants, but they knew nothing about her, or why she is there. They do not want to know, he can see the fear in their gazes, and the discomfort in their tense shoulders. There must be a reason.

He will find hers.

Why is he still here? Why, with his slow, graceless steps, thundering on the floor towards her, and the erratic beating of his heart, the smell of his curiosity, why is he still here? She wants him to leave. He is late, and she is hungry, feeling his warmth press against her as he replaces the flask, scenting him, the way an animal does its prey. It's not safe until he leaves. It's not safe to move until he has locked the door behind him, caging her, protecting her. Why?

He's hesitating; she can feel his hand reach across the distance between them. Her body is torn between the need to shuffle away, and the desire to feel his touch. Touch me. She holds herself still. Touch me. He doesn't, he never does. She hears him stand, feels the floor quiver as he strides back to the door. The sound of his inhale, like he is preparing to speak, falls heavy on her ears. She can remember the sound of his voice, deep and powerful, like the ocean. But he says nothing, and then there is only the sound of the door scraping shut, and the key scratching in the lock, before she is once more cocooned in silence and solitude.

It's safer that way.

As night descended, so too did the feeling of expectation. The air became tense, thick, impatiently waiting for something. With the first crack of lightning, the tension erupted, only to build up again, stronger and more intense than before. He stood at the window, pausing in his nightly duties to watch a whip of light flask across the sky. Above his head, in the topmost room of the tower, she lifted her head from the flask, a drop of red slithering from the corner of her lips, as the sky moaned. Soundless words tumbled from her and the flask slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor. The rain rattled against the walls of her prison, masking the sound of her tears, her anguish, her fear.

He comes in once every day, only once, to feed her. She always sits in the same place, crouched in the corner with her back to the door, a thick chain of manacled to her ankle, connecting her to the wall. Always, she sits there, never acknowledging his presence, never moving. And yet, today there is something wrong. Her shoulders are tense, and there is a small pile of dust and glass - the remnants of her flask.

But still, she does not acknowledge him.

He is clearing away the shards when the sound of hooves clatter towards the tower. There has never been a visitor here. It is as though the world has forgotten this place, this prison. Forgotten her.

He hears a separate sound, different from the horse, unlike anything he has heard before. A gasp. Nothing more, nothing less. He turns to her sharply; her shoulders a shaking, suppressing fear, anger or tears, he does not know. He wants to. His hand reaches forward, achingly slow as it crosses the vast distance between them, before coming to rest on her shoulder. That single touch renders him speechless, it is so powerful, like being swept away by the ocean, as though the world as shifted beneath him, beneath them. Her shoulders stop trembling. "He's going to kill me." Her words surprise him, not only the content, but the voice. It is cold and smooth, like velvet, and small, the years of silence robbing her of the ability to be any louder.

All of this is nothing, nothing at all, when at last she turns. He recoils, at first, because she is not what he had expected. Her face is only beautiful at first glance, before your eyes reach below the glamour of her unblemished, opal skin, and the sweet, garnet lips, which were parted in waiting. But her skin is too fair, and her lips too bold, that she seems unnatural, unbalanced. And her eyes are two amethysts, set into carved ivory. Her long lashes obscure their vivacity as her lids lower. "Are you going to kill me too?"

Is this vulnerability a game? But no, he can glimpse the faint shimmer of tears, welling in her eyes. It's this emotion, this revealing of her soul, that makes her beautiful to him. "No," He says. "I'm not."

They listen to the hammer of a fist on the front door. She jumps with every pound and his chest clenches in agony to see her so fearful. He raises her eyes to meet his, finding something, some power, lurking in their depths. "On the twelfth struck of midnight, I'll be back for you, okay?"

She nods slowly, uncertain. Others had failed her before. If they had not, she would surely not still be locked her, hidden. Her eyes stay on his form as he walks away from her. He can only hope she trusts him to come back.

She has already convinced herself he will not return. The broken shards of glass are still sitting beside her in place of the full flask he usually leaves behind. She brushes her fingers through them absentmindedly. Without the flask, is there reason for him to return? He is the boy who feeds her, who replaces the empty canister; he does this every day, and has no further obligation towards her.

She remembers the way he recoiled from her, the moment she turned to meet his inquisitive gaze. He was more than she had imagined. Beautiful, in ways she had thought a man incapable, his cheeks flushed with life, eyes bright with emotion, and full lips flicked down at the ends, as he studied her. The sight of her had repulsed him. He should be repulsed by her, it was the safest for him, and yet, she had felt saddened by his horror.

The bell tower from the city could just be heard in the distance, striking midnight. One, two, three... By the time that she reaches twelve, her eyes fixed on the door with reluctant hope and expectation, he still has not arrived.

She has always known that he wouldn't come. So why does her chest feel so tight? Her heart so heavy?

The scraping of the lock stops her thoughts before she can find an answer. The door slips open, revealing to her the only person she wants to see. He holds out a key, black iron, just like the chain. She feels her lips quirk up into a smile, before touching them in surprise. She has never smiled before.

The surprise must show on her face, or maybe he is equally shocked to see her smile, because he his face pales, and he seems uncertain as to what to say. He walks towards her, and there is a tense, agitated movement to it. Is he angry with her? She recoils from him as he moves to touch her face. His eyes darken, lips twisting into a hard line, but he merely crouches down and unlocks the shackle around her ankle.

Nononono. No. It's not safe to do that! It's not safe...

"I… I have a horse waiting. It's... It's not a white stallion, but will you still let me lead you to safety?"

She opens her mouth to speak. Why would it matter what colour the horse, has long as it can bear her away? Only royalty and noblewomen deserve horses of such calibre. She is neither. Before she can get the words out, he is pulling her to her feet. "We must hurry." Where his fingers touch her gaunt arm, there is such warmth, a heat she has never experienced before. Usually she is so cold, as though she is not really a girl at all, but a being carved from ice.

His hand slips down her arm, and he carefully takes her hand. The small connection makes her chest hurt, her heart pounding hard against her rib cage. What is this feeling? It is as though she has been asleep all this time, and now, with his hand grounding her, she is suddenly awake, suddenly real. He tugs her towards the door. He tells her to hurry, tells her they will have to quick, have to be silent. She has been still for so long, is it even possible to walk? Her legs shudder beneath her weight, unsteady on the ground. But then he tightens his grip on her hand, and she's moving. Moving.

It is exhilarating.

"Where will we run to?"

He glances back at her over his shoulder, a frown between his eyes. "Wherever we want."

Her hand is cold. That is the first thought he had when he took it. It is still cold now, but all he can think of is that it is her hand he's holding, that it is her soundless feet following him, her eyes gazing upon him, her voice speaking to him in those soft, barely-there whispers.

She gasps as they make their way through the tower. To him, this is nothing special, nothing he has not seen before. But she has seen only the grey walls of her prison, and the sudden, glaring red, the thick rug beneath their feet, the swinging chandeliers and the portraits... All of it is something new, something spectacular.

He will show her more, much more than this, all the beauty that is in the world, everything she could ever dream.

It's too easy. She thinks it has he leaves her standing alone outside the stable. Why was it so easy? Surely someone heard, someone saw, suspects, knows. Maybe it is a ruse. Get her hopes up, and crush them, crush her. It is cruel, but humanity is cruel, and she would expect nothing less from the man who wants to kill her. He claimed once that she was a monster, that her eyes were inhuman, and that it was safer to keep her locked away. Safer for who? She thinks now. Safer for herself, so that she would not have to endure their hostile looks, or for him?

It cannot be for the people. He would not employ so many humans, would not send an unarmed, naive boy into her prison, if it was, would he?

The man was a lord, besides. And lords only cared about themselves, didn't they?

He returns, leading a small, bay horse towards her. The horse scents her, its eyes widening. It swings its head towards her, tugging at the reins, but he soothes it with a gentle hand, crooning softly. When the horse settles beneath his guidance, he climbs deftly into the saddle, and then holds out a hand towards her.

Before she can take it, there is a sound, a horrid wail of anger, drifting down from her small, prison window.

His face tightens with urgency. Take the hand. She moves towards the horse, but her movements are too quick, and the beast skitters, forcing him to use both hands to bring it back under his control. Animals have never liked her. They sense in her the predator that man cannot conceive.

"Take my hand!" He offers it once more, just as the tower door thunders open. She glances towards the sound, looking at the man who wants to kill her, meeting his eyes with hers.

"Take my hand, please." It is as though he knows, as though he can feel the change in her. His voice is pleading with her. She looks back up at him. The sun is rising over the horizon, casting a thin layer of pink over the shadows. In the half light, he looks even more enchanting, even more beautiful, and she can see his fear, written across his face.

A single ray of light touches her skin. How warm, how dazzling! She lets the light wrap around her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she says. He knows what it means, he knows, but is powerless to stop her as she gives a strange, inhuman roar. The horse rears up, and he can do nothing but hold on for his life as the beast rushes towards the sunrise, towards freedom, and away from her.

He tosses a glance over his shoulder. His eyes find hers, even over the mounting distance. Even through the tears. She watches him, watching her, with the sun glinting upon her skin. She has never felt the sun, she has never felt anything. She watches him, watching her, until the sun reaches her eyes, and burns them.

And then she turns to the man.

The sword in his hand glints in the sparse daylight as he spins the blade around to kiss her throat.

He is too late. He knows it before he halts the horse at the tower entrance. He sees no life outside; it is as still as death. The door to the tower is closed, and he reaches for the handle. Its resistance makes his heart pound with terror. Before he is aware of himself doing it, he is slamming his body into the wooden surface, hoping that, by some miracle, he can force his way inside.

It happens suddenly. A splintering crack sounds, and he is falling through air, chasing the remnants of the door. He allows himself a moment of shock, before pushing himself up to his knees. A repetitive, flicking sound, like that of a cat drinking milk, almost, whispers towards him.

"You should not have returned."

The soft voice flows from ahead, filling him with relief. Through blurry eyes, he sees the crouching figure of the girl. Her hands are to her mouth, and that the flicking sound is her tongue, licking over them in an almost frenzied manner. The violet of her eyes is brighter than before, gleaming like two brilliant stars.

"Where is the man?" He asks.

"Dead," she says.

"Dead?"

She nods, dropping her hands from her face. Her lips are darker, stained a rich, violent red. The very sight of them makes him shudder. He doesn't know why. "He called me a monster," She said. She slowly climbs to her feet, her eyes never leaving his face. "Do you think I am a monster?" With every word, she takes a step towards him. He feels as though he is in a dream, unable to move, unable to breathe, as she closes the distance between them. At last, she stands over him. "Am I a monster?" He cannot answer her, for he does not know. She touches his face with her cold, cold hands. Trapped in this dream-like state, he does nothing as she bends and presses her lips to his.

Her kiss tastes like blood.


End file.
